Sweet Tea
by Onesimus42
Summary: An argument between Mr.Carson and Mrs. Hughes


**Sorry, I know I need to finish Seasons, and I promise to do it this weekend. I had a trying day and just couldn't face it last night, so I decided on something a little lighter. I hope it's comprehensible. **

Charles Carson was going to die. Elsie was certain of this because she was quite cheerfully planning on killing him. She had actually come up with several scenarios. The first was smothering him with his pillow, although she thought he might have regained enough strength to fight her off. The second was drowning him in tea, with _two lumps of sugar, please_. She personally favored that method for the pure irony of it. At the moment, however, she was put out enough to whack him over the head with any large and heavy object she could put her hands on quickly. Once she calmed herself enough to think a little more rationally, she reasoned that she should probably have someone else do it since she was the sole beneficiary of his will. It would look just a little suspicious if she was found standing over his dead body with a dented pan.

Charles had no idea of the mortal peril that he was in. If he knew, he would probably not be complaining that she had not added enough sugar to his tea before bringing it to him. He was trying to make her understand that if the sugar was not added when the tea was properly hot, then it just never had the same level of sweetness. He did consider himself rather an expert on tea, having made and served it daily for over twenty-five years. The truth was that he really wasn't complaining so much as wanting to share his expertise with her. He actually was beginning to feel well enough now that he mainly just wanted to have a decent conversation with someone, preferably Elsie, although he would have settled for Daisy or even Pharaoh at the moment. He was bored with having to confine himself to two rooms.

The restraining factor on Elsie's murderous instincts was not her fear of going to jail. She was actually beginning to think that it might be fairly peaceful after the week she'd had. What held her back was that just five days ago she had been incredibly afraid for Charles' health. He'd come down to breakfast with a flushed face and a faint bead of perspiration on his forehead sitting down heavily in his chair. She'd only had to glance at him to be worried, forgetting herself enough that she had cupped his cheek in her hand to check his temperature. The burning warmth against her palm had caused her to order him straight to bed. It had been a measure of his state of health that he'd merely looked at her bleary eyed and nodded. When he tried to stand and almost fell backwards in his chair, her alarm increased dramatically. She ordered William and one of the hall boys to help her get him to his sitting room. The fact that it had taken the three of them struggling mightily to get him to the settee in his sitting room was what had caused her to only add one lump of sugar instead of his customary two to his tea. She had decided that when he was well, she was going to set out on a determined effort to cause him to lose weight, which would necessitate curbing his abominable sweet tooth. Now would probably not be the best time to explain that to him, however. It would require a little more tact than she felt capable of at the moment.

She took a deep breath and interrupted his treatise on the art of tea-making, "Charles, would it not be possible for you to simply either drink the tea as is or add another lump to it now?"

"Elsie, dear, that is just what I've been trying to explain to you," he said with an air of long-suffering patience.

"Charles, _dear_, I understand that you're upset that your tea is not sweet enough, but honestly if you have enough time and energy to argue with me about one lump of sugar you can get up, put the lump in your tea, and stir it on your own."

"I'm not arguing with you," he corrected, "I'm simply trying—"

She cut him off testily, "Yes! I know you know how to make tea! Did you never consider that I might have some idea how to make it as well?"

"Now, Elsie," he began soothingly, "there's no need for you to get testy."

"Testy!" she exclaimed, "Charles, I am far past testy right now. I'm done. Fix your own tea. I'll be back when and if I have the time," starting toward the door as she finished.

Hearing a loud thump behind her as she reached the door, she looked back to see that Charles had gotten up to start toward her. He was now holding on to the back of his armchair, swaying slightly with eyes closed.

"Charles! For heaven's sakes, sit down."

Falling down into his armchair, he said, testy himself now, "I'm fine. I just got up too quickly. Made me a little dizzy is all."

Crossing quickly to him, she laid her hand on his shoulder, "Charles Carson, if you fall and break your head after I've spent the past five days trying to save it, I'll kill you."

Chuckling, he covered her hand with his, "Will you dig me out of my grave to murder me, then?"

Breath catching, she said, "Don't joke about that Charles."

Looking up at her at the waver in her voice, he said gently, "Elsie, I'll die someday but not today."

In answer she gripped his shoulder tighter. Seeing the tears shining in her eyes, he drew her into his lap. She cried softly against his shoulder as he held her close. Holding her, he began to think of what the last five days must have been for her. He actually couldn't remember the first two. He vaguely remembered Elsie telling him he needed to be in bed and what had seemed like an almighty struggle to get him to his rooms. From there he remembered a few snatches of mostly Elsie. Dr. Clarkson had been there telling Elsie that the first three days were the most important. After that, it seemed that every time he woke, Elsie was there, giving him aspirin, water, and bathing his face. Actually, he thought with a little bit of embarrassment, he remembered her bathing a little more than his face. He began to wonder exactly when Elsie had slept during this time. Hearing that her cries had subsided, he decided to ask her.

"When was the last time you slept?"

"I had a little nap this morning."

"In your bed?"

"No, I was sitting here watching you sleep."

"If you were watching me sleep, how could you be napping?" he pointed out a little exasperated.

"Well, I—" she began.

"Elsie," he interrupted, "when was the last time you slept in your bed?"

Fingering the lapel of his pyjama shirt, she said softly, "The night before you got ill."

"So you've not slept properly in five nights?"

"Four," she corrected.

"Elsie, what good did you think it would do me if you nursed me back to health only to get sick yourself? Do you have any idea what it would do to me to see you ill?"

Looking into his eyes, she thought she might, "Probably something like what it did to me to see you ill."

Watching her quietly for a moment, he said, "Forgive me. I've been very selfish. I hadn't thought how worried you might have been."

Silently she agreed with him just a little, "Charles, you hardly knew what was going on for the first two days. On the third, you were still too sick to be a bother. It's only been for the last day that I've actually felt the urge to strike you."

He laughed, but only a little as he knew it was probably true, "You need to sleep. Lie down and get some rest."

When she started to protest, he stopped her, "I'll wake you in an hour. I doubt the girls will start dicing in one of the bedrooms in that length of time. Go on; lie down in my bed, though. You need proper rest."

"Charles—"

"Elsie, for heaven's sake, lie down! It's not as if you've never slept in my bed before, and no one's going to risk coming to the sick room without being asked."

She relented finally and went through the door to his smaller bedroom to get some rest.

He sat there for several minutes thinking over the past few days and recovering his strength. He decided that it was time to get some real clothes on and out of these pyjamas. Standing slowly this time to avoid the dizziness, he walked over to the table and picked up the now cool, not-quite-sweet enough tea.

He slipped quietly into his bedroom, glancing at the bed to ensure himself that Elsie was asleep. Crossing to the wardrobe, he sat on the chair beside it for a moment to catch his breath. He decided that his best course was probably going to be frequent breaks, so he removed his pyjama shirt while sitting down. Then, standing, he put on a fresh shirt and sat back down to button it. After another pause, he rose to remove his pyjama trousers and get a pair of socks from his dresser. Sitting down to put them on, he was chagrined to realize that he was becoming a bit winded. He finished dressing slower than he ever had in his life, leaving off the collar and tie as being just too much bother. The effort that this exercise had taken as well as the fact that he very much wanted to lie back down made him realize just how ill he had been.

Looking at his watch, he saw that Elsie's hour was up. He would rather have let her sleep but decided it was probably best not to anger her further if he could help it. Crossing to the bed he sat beside her and leaned over her to kiss her cheek. She woke, rubbing her cheek. "You're scratchy," she murmured.

He chuckled, "Yes, well, while I'm not overly fond of my nose. I'd rather not cut it off." Holding out his hand, he let her see the tremor.

She smiled, "You got dressed."

Lifting his eyebrows, he said, "Yes and all by myself, too. Surprising for a man who's been dressing himself for just fifty-five years or so."

She smiled, sitting up, "I need to get back to work."

"You do," he agreed, "but you need to sleep tonight, in your bed."

"Charles," she began quietly, "there's no way I would be able to sleep without knowing you're well."

Watching her for a moment, he said, "Then sleep here. You've already been exposed to my sickness as much as you can be so there's no danger there, and I'm afraid I'm still a little too weak to bother you. Come back here tonight, and I promise you'll be able to sleep."

Cupping his cheek in her hand, she said, "Let's not argue about tea anymore, please."

Placing his hand over hers and turning to kiss her palm, he smiled, "Of course not, but now biscuits, that's a different matter entirely."

**After doing quite a bit of internet research to try to figure out just where a butler's rooms were (which yielded a lot of interesting information about who Gerard Butler is sleeping with), whether with the rest of the staff or downstairs, I've finally decided that they were probably a set of 2 rooms downstairs. While for the rest of my fics, I have Charles upstairs with the rest of the staff to make sneaking around more interesting, for this one I've put him downstairs on the same level as the staff hall, kitchens, etc.**


End file.
